He pulled on his sweats and went downstairs, keeping close to the edge of the stairs, avoiding the creaks. Force of habit. The wine from dinner and afterwards was still in his system, but instead of softening the craving, it only seemed to have increased it. After the night he’d had, he needed a proper drink – something to cauterise his mind and his emotions. What he wanted was a slug of his dad’s single malt. He knew where it was hidden. But first he padded silently into the dining-room and opened the cabinet. There was a muddle of glassware inside, including the stylish Norwegian tumblers that Noah himself had given to his father a few years back – a gift from one of his many trips abroad. He doubted they had ever been used. He and his dad had stuck to the old-fashioned, heavy-bottomed bevelled glasses that had been a wedding present. They both liked the feel of the cut-glass against their fingertips as they held their drinks up to the light like connoisseurs, before swallowing it like alcoholics. It was one of the rituals that had survived his dad’s diagnosis. Booze was obviously verboten when you had MND, but a shared sneaky Scotch – in defiance of medical advice, Megan’s wishes and, very probably, common sense – was one of life’s true pleasures. And as his dad used to say with a wry smile, when you’re suffering coordination and speech problems… who the hell is gonna know you’ve been hitting the bottle?
Spirits to keep your spirits up. Cheers!
Leaving his dad’s glass on the shelf, Noah crossed silently over the hall and opened the door to his father’s room. He slipped inside. In a bid to banish any irrational guilt he might be feeling about sneaking around, he switched on the lamp and went over to the window. Bold as brass. The Scotch was there, tucked in the corner, hidden behind the floor-to-ceiling curtains. The bottle of ten-year-old Talisker that Noah had smuggled into the house a few months back, swaddled like a baby inside one of his jumpers. A gift. A secret shared between father and son.
Noah unscrewed the cap and brought the bottle to his nose, breathing in the peaty sourness. He set his glass on the small table and poured himself a generous double. One measure for him, one for his dad. As he set the bottle down next to his glass, it struck him that there was barely a third left. The thought that his dad had managed a few sneaky drams on his own made Noah smile. He raised his glass to the night sky, toasting his father. The heat in his throat, then his stomach, hit the right spot. With his back to the room, he took another sip. He wasn’t a philistine – the good stuff needed to be savoured, not guzzled. But it was possible to sip quickly; in fact it was probably advisable at times of stress, and his situation was very definitely on the upper end of the stress scale.
Glass empty, he put it down and refilled it.
To the task at hand.
Uncomfortably aware of the hiccup in his heart rate, Noah crossed the room and dropped down onto his hands and knees. He peered into the gloomy void beneath the bed. The box was still there, just where Freddie had left it. Noah retrieved it. He climbed unsteadily back to his feet and returned to his spot by the window.
He lifted the lid, in expectation of… treasure? A secret stash of jewellery that Megan was keeping schtum about? Letters that would reveal the true state of his father’s mind in the last months and days before his death?
Nope.
The box was empty.
For fuck’s sake!
He flung it across the room. He registered the first crack as it collided with the wall, but not the second as it hit the floor, because by then Noah was already reaching for another drink.
‘What are you playing at, Dad?’ It was the malt, and the frustration that had been building up inside him for days, talking. Noah glared at the empty chair across from him, conjuring a version of his father.
The one that took shape was surprisingly well defined. Clean-shaven, smartly dressed, relaxed. Noah was relieved. He didn’t want to resurrect Jonathan in his latter months, the invalid with shaking hands and a wavering head. This was the father Noah wanted to remember – fit in mind and body, sharp in spirit. The ghost of his father looked to be listening, which made a nice change. Noah decided it was time for some straight talking.
‘Seriously, Dad, what the fuck?’
His dad leant back in his chair and crossed his legs, left over right, with ease and nonchalance.
‘If your objective was to cause a fucking riot, well, I can tell you, you’ve succeeded. Liv has gone into overdrive, and Chloe is having kittens.’
His dad raised an eyebrow, questioning.
‘Me? I’m just trying to work out what you were thinking.’
The ghost father kept his own counsel.
‘Why the big secret? Why not tell us what you were planning? We are adults.’
His dad looked doubtful. He was resolutely giving nothing away. The old cat-and-mouse routine – making any victory hard-won, even a conversational one. It pissed Noah off, as it always used to.
‘I get that it’s some sort of test: forcing us to come together and agree something. But it seems – I don’t know – a bit of an extreme way of making a point. And leaving Megan’s share for us to decide, what’s that about? You must have known it would cause a ruck. She’s barely said two words since she found out we’re the sole executors and that it’s down to us to decide what she does, or doesn’t, get. I can’t say I blame her for being hacked off really. I know I would be, in her situation.’ Noah took another
